


Women of Revolution: Courier

by Corycides



Series: Women of Revolution [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the fact that women are recruited into the militia, we never seem to see any of them. Assuming that General Monroe isn’t keeping them in a pen outside, what are they doing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Women of Revolution: Courier

The hill was both a torment and a tease. It made already tired legs ache, lactic acid like lead in her thighs, but it meant she was nearly home. Dina pushed herself up out of her seat, giving her legs a bit more oomph, and powered the battered old hardtail up the slope.  
Sweat on her collar rubbed a raw spot on her neck and blood thumped a familiar rhythm in her ears. She timed the pump of her knees to the beat of her heart, making them match.

She missed music sometimes. Her best memories of before were of flying along through a world set to a VV Brown soundtrack. Sometimes it had seemed like everyone else was going in slow motion.

Top of the hill. Dina felt her centre of balance tip, weight going forwards, and thought about coasting. Every time she thought about coasting. Only she still had about a mile to go, and she’d rather her legs didn’t turn into one big cramp.

On her way down she caught the black and white flag snapping over the compound. Knowing she was on the home stretch gave her a jolt of energy and she kicked it up a notch as she hit the flat again. The trees whipped by in the periphery of her vision, blurring into a smudge of green and brown. She caught a glimpse of a burnt out campfire and then it was gone.

Probably just one of the itinerant families that kept moving through the area, going from one place with no hope to another. She should tell the commander anyhow.

The narrow front tire hit a pothole in the tarmac, making Dina’s teeth clack together. Every week the roads got worse. She’d heard promises that General Monroe had plans in place to fix them up, but they kept getting pushed back. Last year he’d spent three months and a lot of dead convicts dragging a bloody tank towards Philly.

The rumour-mill had him two moves away from getting the power to go back on. Not everyone was thrilled. Some people – people like the militia – were better off in this new world than they’d been before. Dina had been 17 and a college drop-up working for a courier company in New York when the lights went out, and even she could remember that a knack for violence and minioning had limited employment opportunities.

Not none, but there were only so many people the mob and cops could hire.

Personally, Dina didn’t object to the idea of the power going back on, but they still needed roads. If Monroe wanted to play Emperor he should pick up on that. The Romans would have been all over that shit.

Dina swung around the wide corner into the compound, slapping the bell on her way by. In the tower she saw the guard scramble up, probably swearing, and crank the doors.

Some of the couriers put a burst on here – just to screw with them – Dina didn’t. Mostly because she was too exhausted to play silly beggars. The guard got the door open enough to let her zip through with room to spare.

She wove through the bollards in the yard and parked her bike with the rest by the office. Her stomach gave a pavlovian cramp of hunger that she ignored as she dismounted and headed into the commander’s office.

It used to be up on the second floor, but the couriers had started chucking their packages at his windows. He’d taken the protests into account and moved down.

(Not proper Militia behavior, but couriers got a certain amount of lee-way. It was hard to be too authoritarian with people who spent most of their time out of the chain of command. Of course, when the hammer did come down it hit the knees. Literally.)

She rapped the door and waited for the gruff order to enter. Commander Fenton was 64 and ex-army – get him drunk and he’d drop hints about knowing General Monroe back when he wasn’t a general – and kind of reminded Dina of the dispatcher back at Splice’s. She wasn’t sure why. They didn’t look anything alike. Grem had dreads and skin like black silk; Fenton was red-faced and jowly and had hair like a toilet brush. Maybe it was the constant air of being harassed by humming birds?

‘Census records from Madison,’ she said, dropping it with a thump on the desk. She rolled her neck and felt the vertebra crack. ‘What’s the General want there?’

Fenton scratched his receding hair-line with a pencil and grunted at her. ‘You know better than to ask, Corporal Wylie.’

Dina sighed. ‘Fine, it’s just if I was cut in on the secrets? I would have only had to carry a couple of pages back, not three books worth.’

Fenton’s chair creaked as he sat back and he gave her tired look. ‘Trust me, Wylie, carrying Monroe’s secrets is lot heavier than a book. Especially now.’

She was going to ask ‘what do you mean?’. She was. But something told her that Fenton might answer and she didn’t want him to. If things were going to get bad, let it be a surprise. Again.


End file.
